Waiting
by jsdeanis
Summary: Rygel thinks about the ramifications post PKWars.


Title: Waiting Author: Jules Summary: Our favourite Dominar thinks the past couple of days over.  
Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: Post PK Wars Distribution: If you want it take it, just tell me Disclaimer: Not mine, mores the pity

He'd had a lot of time to prepare for his triumphal homecoming. Time to imagine the celebrations in his honour, to salivate over the promise of long-denied rare delicacies served at a month-long feast. Time to craft a speech so eloquent the cheers of his faithful subjects would echo from one end of space to the other. Time to plan his cousin's death a thousand ways - each one more painful than the last; he'd incorporate the execution into the festivities, the death of the false idol.

The right thing starts at the beginning of the day

In his cell, during Durka's playtime, these thoughts had kept him sane. During his cycles on Moya, both imprisoned and fleeing from authority, these thoughts had provided the drive to continue, the inspiration to deceive, the inexhaustible determination to succeed and return home. The time waiting for Crichton to wake was spent differently, even the peace accords; a glory to his name, an auspicious illustration of his political abilites, took second place in his mind. As was increasingly common nowadays on this side of the universe, his thoughts centred mainly on John Crichton and the rest of Moya's renegade crew.

The still figure on the bed in front of him didn't make sense. This could not be the infamous John Crichton, the man who so recently rent the universe at its seams, who shook the galaxy to its foundations to be built again in an image he deemed worthy. Who wielded chaos to create peace. This fragile husk of flesh and blood and bone could not have contained such power.

Crichton would wake soon, of that he was sure. John Crichton would always get back up no matter how far he fell down - he had come to acknowledge this as one of the universe's few certainties.

But death was another...Crichton had laid down at Dam-Ba-Da and never got back up...

No. Crichton would wake soon. His eyes were drawn to the human's face and, as had happened the first time and every time since, he felt his soul shiver at the sight of the scar on Crichton's brow. He tried to reason it away, to ignore it, accept it as Aeryn had seemed so easily to do, even as his heart whispered soothing nonsense about the universe and balance in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Zhaan's. All mystic drivel he was sure, he didn't believe anything else. No rubbish about the universe aligning, making amends or wheels turning . There was only one John Crichton and frankly, even that was one too many some monens. He regretted the thought almost immediately then felt angry about the regret. A dominar's thoughts and actions and words were always right and just and true.

Except when they were not. Aquarra had been but one example...

Except a false Dominar had sat upon his throne for cycles, issuing false proclamations, his own version of the truth, lies against himself.Bishan had proved unequal to the task of ruling however. Had come begging and pleading to him only days before.

He wasn't needed, just his blood...Descendant of Rygel The Great...

It had occurred to him one day during his imprisonment aboard Moya that Bishan had now ruled longer than he had. It was that day he had conceived the beginnings of the eventual prison break. That day he had begun to recruit fellow conspirators to aid him.

Gone now...May your afterlife be almost as pleasant as mine...

He was the only one left. He remembered the struggle, the plotting, the coup. The exhilaration, the longing for freedom, the fear that they would not succeed. Then along came a creature, trailing destruction but bringing hope, a means to escape and a reason to be hunted.

Crichton had not moved in three days. So much else had changed but this man lay still; lost in his own mind as he had been too frequently before. In the silence after battle Aeryn's screams had echoed in their hearts.

Not again...too much...we've lost too much...too many ghosts crowding the halls...

Crichton had lain still as the recovery began; lain silent through the peace talks, unmoved as the greatest powers in the galaxy bowed to his demands. There was peace. He'd signed the accords himself, bourne witness to the birth of a new era.

There was no-one else. They had to be represented, their place in history recorded. Their captain was dead, Chiana mourned, Aeryn waited. Never Stark. Just him to see it through. It was his seal but it was Crichton who mattered, his threats, his hopes, his insanity that made it all possible. He merely substituted. All hail the mighty Dominar...

John Crichton cast a long shadow. In his time away from Moya, searching for the Hynerian rebellion he'd heard such tales. The wanted beacons shouted John Crichton's importance on almost every planet in the Uncharted Territories and the inhabitants of each one traded stories over raslak that grew into legends. He'd laughed himself sick the first time he'd heard the rumours, then, like Chiana, had resented his seeming unimportance.

When did a Dominar become a mere footnote?

He'd soon realised how it could be used to his advantage. The revolution had been over before it began; poorly organised blowhards who longed for glory days long passed. He needed power to retake the throne, no matter how tenous his cousin's grip may be. People feared and admired the human, he defied the Peacekeepers, mocked the Scarrans and outwitted the Nebari. People were uninformed, delusional idiots. They could be manipulated. The answer was obvious, he would return to Moya and renew his association with Crichton.

With the exception of Crais who had foolishly allowed his grief to cloud his judgement, he understood their hunter's facination with Crichton, with his capture. He understood Scorpius's obsession with obtaining wormhole weapons - revenge was a powerful if dangerous motivation. He saw the reasoning behind Grayza's pursuit; such power could have extreme political use; something already demonstrated by the peace treaty and an asset he intended to use himself. The Scarrans simply saw him as a threat to be eliminated. He could easily identify; had he still ruled and he had realised Crichton could not be bribed, seen the violent repercussions of any attempt to manipulate or blackmail, he would probably have been one on the most vocal supporters of the human's demise.

He could not help but wonder at the path he had taken, the changes enforced upon him in his captivity and those learnt every day since. Now when John Crichton was laid before him he could only hope for his recovery. Hope the baby would have the chance to know his incomprehensible father. He did not know if Aeryn could survive losing Crichton a second time.

No, he did know; she would survive but the best piece of her would die, shrivel without her husband to nurture it.

How would Chiana cope? She seemed so brittle now; to lose her lover and then her brother would surely break her, shatter her joy and deaden her love of life. She needed Crichton's shoulder, his arm to wrap around her, needed his teasing and his care.

He needed John Crichton. He needed him at his back; the threat of him, the harbringer of wormholes, destroyer of stars, to pry Bishan's hands from his throne.

To call me Sparky...Buckwheat...Fluffy...Guido...

Wake up, you poor probacto. 


End file.
